Permission of Intimacy
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: They have been married for four months, and still Erik asks for Christine's permission when he wishes to be intimate.


**A/N: To say that I am out of practice at writing smut is an understatement, but I hope you can overlook any awkwardness! Enjoy!**

* * *

"May I?" Erik's voice is soft, words murmured against her throat, and her heart aches that he still feels the need to ask her permission. He is hers, and she is his, and this is how it has been for four months now (four wonderful months). His lips are hesitant, their touch uncertain, and she nods, smoothing her hand up his back, his silk nightshirt soft.

"Yes," she breathes, and bows her head, kissing his hair gently. "You may." And her words are all of the permission he needs for his fingers, those delicate, graceful fingers, to unbutton her nightdress. She shivers, feels the chill of his fingertips as they lightly graze the underside of her breast, and his fingers still, his breath catching.

"Did I—" There is the undercurrent of anxiety in his voice, and she softly shushes him.

"No, darling, no. Your hand is just a little cold is all."

"Oh. Would you prefer if—"

"No. Perhaps," she swallows, and presses herself a little tighter to him, "perhaps it will warm up if you—if you keep doing that." And her heart throbs, hips shifting, as he squeezes her breast.

He nuzzles back into her throat, and sighs, chilled thumb tracing over her nipple and it is all she can do to stifle a gasp, all of the air seeming to have suddenly vanished from the room. "If you wish it."

"I do." _Oh, I do._

He nods, and the light brush of his lips against her pulse thrills through her, makes butterflies flutter beneath her navel, and as if he senses it, as if he knows, his free hand (the one not currently cupping her breast, squeezing it in time with his gentle kisses) slips under her nightdress, brushes her thigh, and she parts her legs, just enough to give him room. Her skin burns as his hand trails higher, and she sighs, eyes closing.

Oh, his hands. How she has often looked at them, dreamt of them in those times when—when she has wanted him and he has been otherwise detained, playing his music (long fingers wrapped around the violin bow, or pressing the organ keys) or too frail for such intimacy, tired from a heart spasm or his morphine (it is morphine she has to thank for this; he awoke from the haze with a low fire smouldering in his eyes and has been kissing her ever since.)

His back is warm through his nightshirt, and as his mouth reaches her collarbone she pulls it up, so that she can touch that expanse of warm skin. There are only thin scars here, ancient ones, ridges beneath her hands that they trace over. She still does not know how many scars there are, has not counted them, and perhaps she should, perhaps it is a number she needs to know, but not tonight. It has no place tonight when her heart is pounding and his lips are gently, ever so gently, kissing her breast.

His hands have warmed, she is distantly aware of the fact, but her awareness is taken over by the hand that softly strokes down her side, and the other hand ghosting over her inner thigh, making her gasp, her hips arching into him. He has such slender hips, graceful hips, as graceful as the rest of him is, the whole of him, but she loses her trail of thought the moment his lips wrap around her nipple, his tongue warm and wet licking it.

"Erik, Erik," she is gasping his name, chanting it, her breaths short and sharp, the weight of his body on top of her not heavy but comfortable and he does not break off, does not stop, and she does not want him to, his lips sucking her nipple and his hand gently seeking out, finding that place between her legs that makes her squirm and she is rocking into him, his fingers stroking that little place, and he is not sucking her nipple any more, is instead mouthing the soft skin beneath her breast, gasping her name into her, _Chris…tine Chris…tine Chris…tine,_ the syllables a broken rush, his heart racing against her. And everything is him, everything is Erik, around her, holding her, touching her, and there is a brief chill on her flesh as he pulls her nightdress up ad then he is burying her face in her stomach, and one of her hands is cupped around his neck, the other one smoothing over his hair, and there is a moment of vertigo, as if she is standing on the edge of a precipice, then all she knows is the pleasure, the sheer pleasure spreading tingling through her, every fibre of her, her heart fluttering as she gasps, and gasps, gasping into his mouth (when did he move?)

"Erik, Erik…"

He moans into her mouth in answer, his fingers twined tight with hers and she can feel the tip of him pressed to her entrance, waiting, ready, and she nods, and slips her tongue into his mouth, and there is a strange piercing sensation, a smooth undulation of his spine, shift of him against her, and then fullness, that fullness that comes only from this, only from him.

She sighs, too heavy to move, too full, and his hips rock into her, in, and out, and in, and out, several times that she does not try to count and he groans, tenses over her and she is weightless, floating, and then he is heavy on her again, so much heavier than before, gasping against her cheek, heart pounding faster than her own, and she knows he has ridden out his pleasure.

With fumbling fingers she smooths down his nightshirt, straightens her nightdress, and draws the sheets up around them. And as he gasps, she presses tiny kisses to his forehead, to his hair, and when his breathing evens she thinks he is dozing off, thinks he is falling into sleep as he has the other times, but instead he sighs against her, and pulls her tight into his arms

"I love you," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, "I love you." And those words, those sweet, wonderful, magical words, have never sounded so beautiful.


End file.
